widows, ghosts and loves sit and sing
in the dark, arched marrow of me
in the dark, arched marrow of me
T
he snarling stag stumbles on his gone-too-seed knees before the wolf entropied from starvation. The doe sink into the swamp mire that has turned as thick and red as coagulated blood upon a torn out throat. Fawns turn their eyes so that the moisture on their cheeks turns to moonlight, and wrath-light, and end-of-the-world light. And their cage, their bloody unicorn cage, licks her lips like an animal instead of an immortal. She tastes blood, and bone, and fermented flowers heady enough to become bitter.
She tastes like--
Like everything.
Yew seeds fall from her bloody eyes as she blinks back the wolf, and stag, and doe, and fawn. Entropied sinew trembles as she bends down to bed with her risen and her sister-god. Wisteria roots in the chambers of her dead-dead-heart. Vines unfurl in the hollows of her jugular and the caverns of her liver. Ghost pipes rise from the murk and rot of her soul. She blinks and it’s seed, and frond, and thorn tumbling down from the agony of her gone-wild magic.
Another heart trembles into life, into that same agony falling, into the holy violence of her sister waiting like a winter before them. Roses carve their way between the broken jawbone of a hare scratching out of the frozen mire. More blood falls-- more, and more, and more, until she doesn’t know if there’s more blood or magic left in the maplines of her veins
“I cannot save them.” The last breath of the stag says as it dies with the wolf. Magic stutters in her chest in a mockery of the fawn’s lament. Her horn wilts, as a flower in winter does, down to the wisteria spine and the sunflower eyes of a risen. She cleaves through them as her magic stutters again when her heart slows into the song of frost on a sapling.
Moisture pools on her cheekbones, it turns to moonlight as the fawn’s had, when she tucks her bloody cheek into her sister’s. She becomes a willow in the thunderstorm of Isolt and there is no sound in the silent fury of her leaves. Her eyes, her bloody and moonlit eyes, flicker and fade. They blink out the last forest creature and the last yew seed.
Danaë becomes a gravestone, a deadstone, as she falls apart with the last risen left uncleaved by her wilting horn. Etched into the marrow and soft silk of her there is only a single word, a single note in which the song of her will ever be recalled. “Isolt.” And nothing else.
In the darkness there is only Isolt, and nothing else.
{ @Isolt "speaks" notes: <3
